


Like One Of Your French Girls

by unrealityfreak



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:37:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrealityfreak/pseuds/unrealityfreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider is smalltime famous. His abstract, deliberately shitty art gets him money and girls and, in certain circles, respect. Life is pretty good. So he's not expecting much to change when the blue-eyed model in a figure drawing workshop takes an interest in him. John Egbert, however, is much more than just a pretty face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from the [kinkmeme](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/17313.html?thread=35606177).

Dave Strider is so over being short.

It's not that he's insecure. Striders don't get hung up on shit like that. He's never going to be able to change it, so he accepts it.

But when he can't even see over the easel provided for him in this shitty workshop, how the hell is he supposed to get anything done?

At first he had blanched at the idea of going to a public class for basic figure drawing. Surely he could have called any dame in his phonebook and had a model in five minutes, in the privacy of his tiny messy apartment. He could have drawn the way the empty chip bags crumpled under her bony knees, or the drape of a dirty shirt across her thigh. Yeah, real classy.

So now he's here, the ad for the class stuffed in his back pocket, tools out and ready to go, and he can't see the damn model. Of course he could just peek around the side of the easel, or ask for a different pad (he normally sketches on his lap anyway, it's just comfortable), but everyone else has got tall easels, and he's not gonna be a prick about it.

Looking around the room for maybe a taller stool or something, he settles on dragging his setup back a few feet and perching on the edge of a tallish table in the back of the room. Well, now he can see, but there's nowhere to prop his feet. Ugh. If his legs start swinging of their own accord while he's distracted he's gonna look like a kid. He's twenty-six, goddammit.

Finally ready, Dave looks over the top of the easel and gets a look at the model. Woah the guy is huge. Not like a no-neck bruiser sort, but pretty cut. The angles of the muscles in his chest cast their own thin little shadows, and his _arms_.... Dave feels the pull in his brain telling him to translate what he's seeing into something he can touch. Normally he wouldn't go for a literal translation, but he's kind of excited to see if he can capture all the lines that make up this guy's body. He's turned half-away, so faces aren't an issue yet. He's going to have to learn how do draw faces at some point if he wants to do this right. But for now he ignores the guy's head and it's five minutes at a time of hard muscle and spinal curves and hips disappearing into jeans.

After the class, Dave has a short stack of sketches that aren't half bad. It's an odd feeling, to be learning art all over again. It's not as if he's new to the idea, he's just always been more of an abstract kind of guy. But lately he's been itching for something different, and leaning more toward still-life and landscapes and, now, humans. Might as well have a full bag of tricks, right?

He decides he's going back to the class. It's held three times a week, and he'll be there every one of those days. But next time he's bringing his own damn pad.

***

Two days later and he's sitting on the floor in the front of the room, pad on his lap and ready to go. He's not sure if he's disappointed that the same guy is back to model again, because he does want some variety in his practice. Maybe he'll have to call up some girls after all.

This time he's not distracted by the equipment, so he watches and listens as the model takes off his shirt and chats with some guy a few feet away. Probably the coordinator of the workshop. While the muscle-bound guy is settling into position, Dave doodles the old man in his own style, overemphasising his curlicue moustache and pudgy hands.

This he knows. This he's used to. His own personal brand of shitty drawing feels so much more natural and he ends up doodling the model in his style for the first few poses as well. Then he switches tracks and starts really getting details in, seeing how accurate he can be. Starting with overall shape and working his way in to one feature per pose, trying his best to get the lighting and movement just right.

Halfway through the class the model takes his pants off, though he pouts a little at moustache man when he's asked to strip. Dave suddenly has so much more to focus on. He tries to capture the way the guy's shoulder blades stand out and the stretch of his neck when he leans his head back. One of the poses flaunts his ass and Dave can't help himself, he doodles it in his own style before trying it seriously. That one is gold.

The next pose is pretty simple: he sits cross-legged and leans forward to put his weight on his hands, pushing his shoulders together. Dave is more and more fascinated with the way his body moves and he dives right in, attempting to capture the way his clavicle folds itself into a v. It takes him a couple minutes of looking back and forth between his drawing and his subject to notice that the guy is looking at him, too.

Wow okay his eyes are really blue. And he wears glasses. Dave recognises the irony in the fact that he has been drawing this guy's body in intimate detail two days now and has hardly noticed anything about his face. He stops what he's doing with the collarbone and tries to sketch the tiny grin blue-eyes is aiming at him before time is up and he switches again. He can't quite get the chin right; he's gonna have to work on that.

Then he's facing to the side, and Dave ignores most of the body in order to get his profile. He's been doing deliberately shitty art for so long that he's totally intoxicated with the feeling of trapping something real on paper. Like a photograph, but made with his own hands.

***

Dave spends the weekend drawing real things. He fucks around with charcoal and pastels and ink, and his subjects range from roadkill to his own feet to the buildings he can see out his window. Of course he still needs a little abstraction in his life from time to time, he's not breaking up with his old stuff, he just needs a little more experience, really baby it's not you it's me.

Occasionally he'll look over his sketches from the workshop and pick apart details, making a list in his head of things he needs to focus on. Like faces. He has like two sketches of the guy's face. His noses suck so far. Google is amazing and he just types in "noses" in the image search and tries his luck with digital references. It's really not the same, but whatever. After an hour or so he's satisfied with his progress and he takes a nap.

Grocery shopping gets done and when he catches sight of his reflection in the glass door to the booze cooler he realises he could be using his own face for practice. Set up a mirror and do a self-portrait. Duh.

He ends up in the bathroom, resting the pad on the sink and trying not to spill the beer beside the faucet. It's a little difficult, because turning his face to any angle just makes it harder to see, and moving to look at the pad makes it impossible to find the same angle again. So he just looks as straight forward as he can, and memorises things before he looks down to draw them. It works about as well as the digital shit.

Giving up on drawing until the next workshop, he finishes the beer and grabs another, flipping through commercials and reality shows until it's late enough to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Yes, so much better. Sitting in the front of the class again, the familiar model already stripped and posed and _real,_ with shadows and the slight movement of breathing and everything, Dave could cry. He's already a snob, he thinks with a quiet snicker.

The guy hears him laughing at himself, and those blue eyes are on him again, startling him the next time he looks up. Maybe next time he'll bring a few blue coloured pencils or something. Oh, god, he hasn't even considered colours yet. What is he dealing with here... The guy is tanned. So darker skin tones. And there's a soft line low on his hips where the skin gets lighter. So obviously he doesn't go nude sunbathing or anything. Dave doodles the guy nude sunbathing in his own style in the corner of the page. Wait, what would that look like if he drew it for real?

He's staring at the guy's package before he realises that, hey, that's creepy, and oh shit the guy caught him looking. Blue-eyes is trying really hard not to laugh because it'd mess up the pose, and Dave kind of wants to scoot back behind the closest easel to hide. As if that wouldn't be even more embarrassing. He sets in on getting the detail of the guy's hand, which is high up in the air and _nowhere near_ his junk.

At the end of the class Dave tries to gather his things and book it, but blue-eyes plops down on the floor in front of him and sticks out a hand.

"Hi, I'm John. I like your lip ring."

Dave gawks at the hand. And at the fact that blue-eyes— _John_ —is still in his underwear. Then he realises he's subconsciously tonguing at his piercing (bottom lip, left side) and stops that immediately, bad Dave, what are you twelve??

"Dave," he offers, taking John's hand and shaking firmly, though not as firmly as the kid, wow. "Thanks."

"So do you want to grab a cup of coffee with me?"

Dave can't help but laugh in surprise. "My, but aren't we forward?"

John shrugs, still smiling. "Why not? You were checking me out earlier, so you might as well buy me a mocha."

"Oh, so visually molesting you means I owe you a drink. In that case it might as well be alcoholic, so when you pass out drunk I can molest you physically as well."

"I'm down for beers. Whatever you want, as long as we go out together."

"You mean out-out, don't you," Dave asks, kicking himself for sounding like a grade-schooler. John nods anyway, and Dave has to admire the way his crooked grin never slips. He must have wicked-strong facial muscles. Or maybe he just smiles more than Dave does, and his face doesn't hurt after a few seconds of mouth acrobatics.

Tonguing his piercing again, Dave stands, and offers a hand to haul John to his feet—

"Fuck me, you're taller up close."

John laughs, one hand on his hip. "Yeah, I drank too much milk as a kid or something. What are you, like five-seven?"

"Five-eight and if you ruffle my hair the date is off, I swear to god." John laughs even harder and Dave makes a face. "Put some damn clothes on, dude, class is over."

***

Once they get to a bar, Dave starts to think John was serious about going out-out with him. And he's maybe starting to take it more seriously as well. He doesn't normally go for guys, but he's not uber-straight or anything. Besides, John is interesting, in a doofy sort of way. Not like he's a total goober, but Dave doesn't meet many people who are just cheerful and direct like John is. It makes him seem childish in a way, though his face and body are anything but.

"How old are you, anyway?" Dave finds himself asking, fingers laced around his glass of dark lager.

"Twenty-three. I'm in school right now. The modelling thing is for spare cash and also a favour to a friend."

Dave snorts. "Curlistache is a friend of yours?"

John snorts too, smacking him lightly on the forearm. "His name is Mercer, and yeah. I've got a class with him, and his last model bailed so he asked me to fill in."

"Not much to 'fill in' when he has you in there pantsless," Dave points out, taking a sip. John makes a face and takes a drink of his slightly lighter beer, their glasses landing on the wood of the bar at the same time.

"You would think that learning how to draw _clothes_ on people would be useful, but nooo."

"Well anyone can draw a person with clothes on. But not everybody has access to attractive naked people. Especially bulgy gym-rats like you."

John shakes his head, smiling. "Never been to a gym. I build houses. And run."

One blonde eyebrow goes up. "No shit. So those are hammer arms."

John flexes a bicep like a cheesy cartoon muscle man, and Dave is reduced to giggles.

"So Dave," starts John, bringing his arm back down to rest on the bar. "What do you do? And how old are you, since apparently that matters."

"I've got three years on you and I'm an artist," he says without interest.

John rolls his eyes. "Well yeah, but what's your day job?"

"Don't have one, really. I do odd jobs, and I make money off my work. I'm not loaded or anything but I'm not artistically malnourished."

"You might as well be, as skinny as you are. None of those odd jobs are very labour-intensive, right? You don't do a lot of heavy lifting or anything?"

"Just because I'm not chiseled out of marble doesn't mean I can't throw you over this bar right now, smartass. I have a fast metabolism and an inability to bulk up, it's all genetics."

John puts one hand over Dave's, smiling softly. "I'm not making fun of you. It's cute." Dave's face goes sour. "Not like kid-cute! Like _I'm into you_ cute."

"Oh." Dave doesn't really know what to say to that. He stares dumbly at John's hand on his for a few seconds before unlacing his fingers and turning one palm-up into John's. And then he's holding hands in a bar with a kid he hardly knows. Why doesn't this feel more weird.

John looks pretty content, and he takes another drink with his free hand, so Dave follows his lead. Soon they're getting their glasses refilled, though the hand-holding doesn't last that long.


	3. Chapter 3

Dave, inexplicably, invites John back to his apartment. He also asks John to hang out in the hallway for a couple minutes while he cleans up. "Cleaning up" is really just picking up all the empty wrappers and cans and sweeping the dirty laundry into the closet in his room with his foot, jamming the door closed. There are some dishes in the sink, but that can't be helped on such short notice. He throws a couple stray plates and cups in with the rest so at least they're all in one place. Then he calls for John to come in.

The kid tries not to laugh. "You really are an artist," he says, sarcastic. Dave rolls his eyes.

"Yeah real cute shut up. Want another beer?" He offers up a bottle, but John holds up a hand in denial.

"I'm actually not much of a drinker. I've had enough for tonight."

Dave shrugs and opens the bottle anyway, and takes a drink as John wanders around, giving himself a short tour. When he gets to Dave's room he looks to his host and raises an eyebrow, and Dave nods his permission. John walks right in, and by the time Dave follows him he's already found the shitty art.

"So this is what you do." He's squinting at a loudly coloured rendition of a human face, covered in pizza toppings and nearly unrecognisable. "Are they statement pieces or something?"

Dave chuckles. "I guess you could say that."

Moving on to a large canvas on which a cartoonish dog is floating upside-down over a black scribble, John makes a face, half-smile and half what-the-fuck?

"Wait, I think I get it. Everything is... kind of inverted? Like, you draw them backwards. On purpose."

Dave is stunned. "They're drawn forward, dude. The dog is the only upside-down one."

"No, I mean like instead of drawing a line to connect point A to point B, you draw it B to A and C to B. All the angles are wrong, but if you sort of rearranged the bits they'd look normal." He turns to look at Dave and is taken aback by his expression. "Woah. I didn't mean to.... Offend you? You don't look offended. What did I say wrong?"

Dave shakes his head. "No, man. You got it right. Nobody understands that shit, not at first anyway. What _are_ you?"

John laughs nervously. "An empath, I guess. I can be pretty tuned in to people. And apparently backwards art."

"Kudos." Dave doesn't know what else to say, so he sits on the edge of his bed and nurses his beer as John wanders around, sifting through completed works and scraps on his desk and half-finished paintings on the walls.

"Haha, wow, is this me?" Dave groans when John holds up the focus sketches from the workshop.

"Yeah. One body part at a time, mostly."

"But not all of them. This one is the whole pose, even if it's a pretty shitty pose." He's grimacing, and shuffles past the sketch. "That pose was stupid."

Dave laughs. "They're all stupid, John. The point isn't to look cool, it's to move in ways that look interesting to wannabes like me."

John has stumbled across one of the doodles in the corners of the pages, and holds it up to Dave with one eyebrow raised. "This is how you see me?" It's the one of John sunbathing naked.

"Oh shit, you weren't supposed to see those," Dave says, getting up to snatch the pages away, but John holds them over his head. "Not fucking fair, green giant," he grumbles.

"What even goes through your head, dude? Some of these are... well, weird isn't the right word." Still shuffling through the sketches, he completely ignores Dave's punches to his gut and sides (god _damn,_ his abs).

Giving up, Dave sits back on the bed and finishes his beer. "Whatever."

"Don't be like that." John sits next to him, handing the pages over. Dave snatches them and tosses them back onto the desk. "It just goes over my head, is all. I don't really get art."

"You got my style just fine," Dave says, shrugging.

"Well, I mean, I don't see what artists see, I guess. If you spell it out for me on the page, I can read it alright. But I don't know that place it comes from."

Dave turns the empty bottle in his hands, fidgeting. He can feel the heat coming off John's body, they're so close. "It's hardly that poetic."

"Sure it is." John's leaning into him now, and he knows he's supposed to lean back, look up, meet his gaze, probably kiss him. He keeps turning the bottle.

After a moment, John gets up and analyses one of the works-in-progress hanging on the wall. Dave doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed in himself.

When John goes home, Dave walks him to the door and they shake hands. It feels awkward, but John's smile is just as bright and his face is completely open. The apartment feels a little emptier once he's gone.

Dave grabs another beer from the fridge, this time just to have something to do with his hands. Goes back into his room and picks the sketches of John up, spreading them out over the sheets. _Really_ looks at them, for the first time. Not the lines that make up the shape, but the version of John that he has put on paper. How had he not noticed how tight his ass was? Or the soft curve of his lips. The first sketch he made of John's face, with that sly little grin. He finds himself drawn to this man more than ever, and then he realises that he wasn't ogling John's body while they hung out because he was too busy looking at his eyes.

Hell. He's got a crush on the kid.


	4. Chapter 4

Wednesday he runs into John in the hallway outside the room where the workshop is held. John smiles when he sees him.

"I would have texted you or something, but I don't have your number."

Dave shrugs. "So your favour is up, then?"

John nods. "Mercer found another model, so I bowed out. He asked if I could stick around and do couples poses with her or something, but that just sounds awkward."

"Sounds like a blast to me," Dave says with a wink, and John grins back. His smiles are crooked but his teeth are perfectly straight. Must've had braces. "What are you gonna do now that you don't have to get ogled all night?"

"I was hoping you'd go to a movie with me, actually. I kind of already have tickets."

Dave barks out a startled laugh before he can cover his mouth with his free hand. "You are something else, kid. No hesitation, you just take what you want."

"And I want you," he says, matter-of-fact and casual, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning on and taking Dave by the arm. "How do you feel about action films?"

***

The distance from Dave's apartment to the building where the workshop was held is easily walkable, but the distance to the theatre is not. John drives them there in his used blue four-door and Dave leaves his art stuff in the back seat. They buy an extra large bucket of popcorn to share and push the middle arm rest back so the bucket is nestled between their thighs. When they brush fingers while reaching for a handful at the same time (there is no way that wasn't going to happen) John just grabs Dave's hand and refuses to relinquish it till the credits are rolling.

When it's over, Dave is shaking his head at how cliche hand-holding during a movie date is, and John doesn't even have to ask what he's thinking. He just pulls Dave's hand up and kisses his knuckles before standing, picking up the near-empty bucket, and exiting the theatre. Surprise and a squirmy kind of happiness delay Dave, so he jogs after him and catches him unawares as he's dropping the bucket into a trash can. He kisses him on the jaw, since that's all he can really reach. John laughs and catches his face in his hands and smiles that thousand-watt smile before walking away again without so much as an eskimo kiss.

Dave isn't sure what's going on. He's had casual sex with women he never bothered calling again, and this college kid is giving him butterflies.

Before John drops Dave off at his apartment, they trade phones to enter their contact info, and Dave takes a crappy self-portrait of himself to set as his contact image on John's phone. John laughs and does the same before they switch back, and then the only thing left is the goodbye.

What the hell does he do here with someone he actually likes?

Thankfully, John makes a move, so he doesn't have to think about anything other than the feel of John's lips, finally, on his. The kiss is brief and there's no tongue despite it being open-mouthed, but Dave is okay with that. He likes the way John does things.

John promises to text him, and with that Dave gathers his stuff from the backseat and waves as John drives off. He goes upstairs and locks his door behind him and throws his things on the desk and collapses on the bed in his clothes and falls asleep earlier than usual.

***

Going to sleep early turns out to be a happy accident. His phone buzzes with a text at fuck-that-o'-clock (eight a.m.; still dark) and he groggily rolls off the bed to blink heavily at it before shuffling to the bathroom, shedding clothes as he goes. Once he's showered and sufficiently conscious he takes a second look at the text.

**John Egbert:  
am i hot enough to get away with dragging you out on adventure at the last minute?**

Dave replies, **i think the better question is are you hot enough to get away with waking me up this early  
spoilers the answer is yes**

He dresses while he's waiting for a reply, and is mildly surprised when it comes before he's even buttoned his jeans.

**John Egbert:  
awesome. i'll pick you up in 30. bring a jacket and your sketchbook.**

He assumes they'll be adventuring outside, so instead of his drawing supplies he packs his camera up and makes sure he has a couple fresh rolls of film in the bag. At least he doesn't have any other plans today. Not that he thinks that would prevent him from spending time with John. For the sake of courtesy he also assumes John would understand and back off if he'd said he had plans and couldn't galavant around with some college kid with a nice ass all day.

Who the hell is he kidding, he always has time to follow around after a particularly nice ass.

John shows up at his door half an hour later and announces that he's buying breakfast to make up for subjecting him to the light of early morning, which is known to be corrosive to the pale, fragile skin of career artists. Dave shoves him out into the hallway, muttering about morning people and spoilt brats who have no boundaries. By the size of John's smirk, he doesn't take the grousing seriously.

They drive for nearly an hour from Seattle to Tacoma, where John leads him into a cozy little place that serves the best omelette Dave has ever eaten. Not that he's eaten a ton of omelettes. The coffee is decent and he takes it with an obscene amount of cream and no sugar. John just has orange juice with his BLT and Dave reprimands him for not having a proper breakfast food at fucking _breakfast,_ but he has to admit defeat when John says "dude, pancakes and bacon for dinner is the best and designating certain food to specific times of day is stupid."

During their meal, they chat. Dave learns that John is in school for business and economics, which throws him for a loop. John sees the look on his face, shrugs, and says it's a good degree to have. Dave can't really argue with that either. John asks about Dave's hometown and his family and Dave says he's from Texas and then sort of ignores the second half of the question. Thankfully, John doesn't pry, and answers Dave's return inquiry with stories about his dad and his grandma and his dog Casey, and says he actually grew up really close to here. His life seems pretty tame and cozy, and Dave finds himself a little bit envious and a little bit staring at John's mouth as he talks. There's a shred of lettuce stuck in his teeth, but at least he doesn't talk with his mouth full.

John goes to pay, and Dave attempts to override.

"Hey, no," John protests when he sees Dave going for his wallet, "I said I'd buy."

"I paid for my movie ticket; I'm gonna pay for my damn eggs."

"That was the first date. You're allowed to be independent on the first date, but by agreeing to a second you forfeit the right to spend your own money."

"Oh, bullshit. Is this what passes for chivalry in your head?"

"It is so chivalrous. I'm a goddamn knight. Find me a dragon and I'll slay it."

"I got your dragon right here," Dave mutters, leaning back and gesturing under the table. John is still giggling when their server comes back around to pick up the check.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click for reference!](http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=glass%20bridge%20tacoma&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&ei=1rPZT6-EJs746QG8g6TLAg&biw=1280&bih=680&sei=2rPZT5PMF42Q8wSwmojrBQ)

"So it's actually kind of a good thing that you brought a camera. I would have suggested that if I knew you did photography."

Dave shrugs, setting his camera bag on the hood of John's car and unzipping it. "Not many people know."

"Why didn't you show me any of your photos when I was over the other day?"

"Like I said; not many people know. I tend not to share them." John takes the hint. Dave takes the lens cap off and tosses it back in the bag, which he slings over one shoulder. The neck strap is attached to the machine, but he hardly ever uses it properly. Instead he winds it around one wrist, loosely, and carries the camera in his hands. Letting it dangle on his chest by the neck strap makes him feel like a tool.

John had driven them maybe ten minutes east and parked again, saying they'd be walking the rest of the way to their destination. He won't say where exactly their destination is, though, and Dave thinks it's cute that he's putting so much effort into wooing a guy who's already pretty into him. Scarily so, actually, especially since they've only known each other for like four days. Dave tries not to think about it too much.

Camera at the ready, he follows John across streets and along sidewalks and down stairs toward wherever they're going. Then they get to the bridge, and John is stealing sidelong glances at Dave's expression, looking smug.

John was right. Photography is so much better than sketching here. If he'd had his pad and some coloured pencils or some paint, they'd be sitting on this damn bridge all day while he tried to get the waves and striations and curves of the blown glass just right; to get the colours as vivid and semi-transparent as they are in reality. As it is, he only has to line the shots up right, and he has an instant preserved image of glass sculptures, hundreds of them, all centred neatly in individual cases or cluttered together in the ceiling, glittering in the sunlight. It's a gorgeous day for autumn in Washington, and he wonders if John's plans were so last-minute because of the break in the weather.

The bridge is awesome, but John assures him it's just a bridge, and that there's plenty more to see, so he stops flitting around after a while. They continue on, and Dave realises that the enormous upended metal cone at the other end of the bridge is a building, and when they descend the half-spiral stairs and come out at the bottom of it, he can't help attempting to capture its enormity on film. John tells him it's the hot shop, and leads him away from it to the main entrance of what turns out to be the Museum of Glass. Not terribly surprised, but still excited, Dave pays his own admission fee once they're inside. It's only twelve bucks, and this time John just shakes his head and smiles when he insists he's not a princess, he can slay his own dragons thanks.

Okay, now he wants his sketch pad. There's no photography allowed inside, so he'd carefully packed his camera back up, and when they enter the hot shop to watch the live glass blowing, the only thing capturing images of humans heating and shaping lumps of glass into wobbly, bright shapes is his memory. He's totally engaged in the act of creation, and he almost doesn't notice when John slides up whisper-close on one side. He definitely notices when John grabs his hand and links their fingers.

After maybe an hour of standing around watching people use sticks to bake and inflate sand, Dave has to pull himself away mentally so that John can pull him away physically, still holding his hand. They mosey through the exhibit, a little chilly after the heat of the shop, mostly silent and occasionally murmuring to each other about the weirdness of the pieces. John has the ability to trash talk art without disrespecting it, and Dave quietly admires how easily the guy fits into his life and shares his headspace without crowding him.

When they get bored of the inside, they exit the museum; but wait, there's more! On their right is a fountain/art fixture, and on their left is a shallow decorative pool/art fixture. John decides to demonstrate how one is able to enter the staggered circle of water-filled, water-covered fountain pillars to stand on the raised stone bench, or pedestal, or whatever. Dave re-un-packs the camera to snaps a photo or two of John being a large dork before getting a closer look and putting his fingers to the clear glass section of one pillar. A thin, cool stream of water rushes over them, and he watches the sun dance on the moving liquid for a moment before John surprises him with a kiss to one side of his head and runs off toward the pool.

The blown glass arranged in flight-like patterns in one half of the pool are actually really pretty, and there are upwardly undulating tendrils in the other half. He tells John it looks like there's an iridescent tentacle monster just under the surface and the conversation quickly turns sexual and disturbing. Not usually a tasteful combination. It makes John laugh though, and he gets a couple close-ups of that tilted smile amongst all the close-ups of lifeless glass imitating life.

Surprisingly, it takes him that long to fill up the roll of film, and John looks intrigued when it coils itself back into the cartridge, the camera whirring with activity.

"It's a film camera? I don't know why I assumed it would be digital."

Dave shrugs. "Digital is cold and impersonal. Is that what I should be saying about now? Or can I just like film better?"

"No, film is awesome. Do you develop it yourself, then?"

"Not really."

"'Not really,' as in you're horrible at developing, or what?"

"I don't take it to a drugstore or anything, if that's what you're insinuating."

His voice is flat, and John looks like he's got the hint again, but he's not sure if it's going to stop him from asking more questions. So Dave changes the subject before it can cross the border into Things Dave Does Not Talk About.

"What else is on the agenda for today? As excellent as this museum has been, I get the feeling you're not done with me."

John glances upward and Dave's suspicions about the weather are confirmed. "Nope, I've still got a couple more items on the list. But first is lunch. It's like, one thirty."

Dave nods. "I am ravenous. If you don't direct me to the nearest fine dining establishment I'll either die of starvation or take up cannibalism."

"Well you _do_ need a hobby. You're way too serious, Dave." John's face is completely straight as he informs Dave of this, close enough that he has to look down slightly to meet his gaze. Dave actually feels the beginnings of a smile in the form of a vague tightening in his cheeks, but before it can manifest John has linked their arms and begun pulling him in the direction of the stairs winding around the giant cone.

They retrace their steps for the most part, and Dave replaces the film cartridge in order to take one last parting shot of the weird rock-candy-looking sculptures on the bridge before packing the camera up again. They veer right instead of left toward the car, and soon Dave is looking up at a sign declaring the restaurant John is gesturing him into to be The Spaghetti Factory. He's pretty sceptical of the name until he gets inside. An eatery branded with the title "factory" does not scream class to him, but the interior sure does. It's warmly lit without being too dim, and there are chandeliers and fancy couches and armchairs in the entrance. Since they're a walk-in, they're briefly shunned to the seating area to wait for a table to open, and John pulls him down next to him on a love seat, snuggling in like a kid or a newlywed. Oh, hell no, stop that train of thought at the fucking station.

Once they're called to be seated, Dave finds himself blinking around like a tourist (which he sort of is) at the tables. Most are pretty standard, but along the walls are little two-person tables flanked with more nice armchairs. There's also a train car in the middle of the restaurant that appears to have seating inside. As it happens, the two are led into the car, and they sit at a comfortably small table in normal wooden chairs (he's totally not disappointed), assured that a server will be with them shortly. When they're relatively alone John aims a huge shit-eating grin at him.

"Always wanted to travel by rail," Dave says, leaning both elbows on the table and looking around.

"I'm paying," John states far too firmly. His seriousness is sort of ruined by the grin.

"Oh you are, are you?"

"I'll let you pay for me at dinner if you want. But this is most definitely a date even though we aren't wearing fancy clothes, and I'm going to slay this particular dragon, so don't even bother arguing."

Dave sighs loudly and throws his hands up. "You are too chivalrous. I cannot resist your rugged charm." Picking up a menu, he continues in a less dramatic voice, "What's good here?"

He ends up ordering crab ravioli. John gets fettucini Alfredo. They agree on a red wine to increase their class quotient and toast "to dragons."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bridge photo!](http://bighugelabs.com/onblack.php?id=4334528902&size=large)

After lunch they drive further south, and then west toward the Puget Sound. John parks the car and leads him along a thin, rocky beach and then up a stack of concrete slabs lined up in a row and jutting out into the water. He says he used to come down here with his friends sometimes as a kid, and up here you can dip your feet into the water at high tide. Dave tells John about how he nearly drowned in a lake once. John looks a little worried and glances around, asking if he's uncomfortable being this close to water without a lifeguard or something, assuring him that despite not having any experience rescuing people from drowning Dave is small enough that it shouldn't be that hard to drag him back to shore. Dave punches him in the thigh and John punches back.

Dave ends up teaching John how to operate the camera. He makes him wear the neck strap, and John doesn't complain. The first couple test pictures he snaps are probably a little out of focus, and he aims the lens at the concrete and the water below like a child taking photos of his feet. Just when Dave is shaking his head, wondering if blurry pictures of meaningless shit could be passed off as art if you rationalised it enough, John swivels up and around to aim straight at a mildly startled blonde, who laughs when he hears the click-whir of the shutter. John's eyes are wide when he lowers the camera away from his face, and he reaches out to grip Dave's arm.

"I need a copy of that one. Seriously. Your face was adorable, I have to blow that up and frame it on the wall of my bedroom."

Dave is still laughing at the sneak attack, but he manages a "Don't call me adorable, oh my god" before John is smiling, and leaning in to kiss him, the camera poking him in the sternum in a way that would be uncomfortable if he were able to give a shit about anything that wasn't John.

They spend a while wandering the beach, and picking through the paths in the wood above it. Dave tells all the distasteful jokes he knows, and John contributes a few of his own but mostly he just laughs. Occasionally they run into another person or couple, and once they meet an overly friendly dog who earns a lengthy belly rub from John on merit of cuteness alone. Dave has to admit that the relentless green is kind of nice, and the sound of the water so nearby is soothing. Being close to John isn't so bad either.

Dinner is at a seafood restaurant on the beach near the parking lot. Dave pays. John orders the most expensive thing on the menu with a smirk on his face that says he's doing it on purpose. It's only like fourteen bucks, but he's still a brat.

When they come back outside there is that vague threat of rain that is typical in this corner of the world. The sun has slipped under the horizon and only the faintest straggling rays touch the blanket of gray cloud over the entirety of the sky. The Narrows bridges in the middle distance, however, sparkle like Tiffany diamond strings, and the water reflects the near-black of the sky smeared with white-blue lights from the bridges and cars, the red of an aircraft warning tower, gold from a passing boat. Dave immediately gets his camera back out and steals the moment for his own. John is leaning against the railing of the dock they're on and not even looking out at the water. When Dave catches him staring, he snaps a picture of the soft, barely-lit expression on John's face as well before sweeping off in the direction of the car.

The ride back to Dave's apartment turns drizzly halfway through. By the time they get there it's raining half-heartedly, and the boys get damp on their way inside. John just pushes a hand through his hair to shake off the droplets clinging to the ends, but Dave is rubbing at his arms and heading straight for the door to his unit. John laughs, closing the door behind him as Dave strips off his hoodie.

"How long have you even lived here?"

"Um, coming up on nine years, I guess."

"Woah, what the hell. How are you still this unaccustomed to the rain?"

Dave glares over his shoulder, pausing in his task of removing the used film cartridges from the camera and the bag. "I hail from Texas, the land of blaze and tumbleweeds. I will never be fully accustomed to your soggy-ass state." He goes back to collecting film and storing the camera in the closet with all the other photography stuff he hasn't used in forever.

John takes his own jacket off and slumps on the couch, still grinning at him. "If you've been here that long, how have you never been to the Glass Museum before?"

Dave comes back from the hallway and drops down onto the couch beside John. "I never needed to explore much beyond Seattle. It's pretty packed with things to do, in case you hadn't noticed. And I'm pretty content with the art museum they have up here. I go check it out every time they bring in a new exhibit. It keeps me cultured."

"You're not an extrovert, are you?"

"Fuck you, I get out plenty. I'm just very self-sufficient. One or two places to go when I'm bored, a handful of favourite restaurants, I'm set."

"So you moved here and then just never left the city?"

"Pretty much."

John scoots closer, just a little, and snickers. "I'm going to take you on so many adventures. You won't know what to do with yourself. We've gotta go camping. We'll go out to Neah Bay, and down to Portland for a bacon doughnut, and Rainier—"

"What makes you think I'd be willing to hang around your knuckle-dragging ass for long enough to do all this?" He lets his knees fall apart and one of them touches one of John's.

"If I can find it in my heart to put up with someone as tiny and fussy as you, I think you'll manage."

"You make me sound like a cat."

"More like a hamster."

"Honey badger."

"Agitated bunny."

It's another one of those kiss-him-now moments. This time Dave is looking straight into blue eyes, returning the smile John is giving him, and he can't pretend he's too engrossed in an empty bottle to notice the atmosphere. He's not sure where things will go if he gives in now. He's not sure his fear of being vulnerable in front of someone is strong enough to stop him from finding out.

He meets John halfway.


	7. Chapter 7

Dave has been here a million times before. Two bodies laid out on the couch, shirtless, lips and hips locked. He's just never done it this _slowly_ before. Every movement John makes against him is deliberate, and he can't help but savour it. Dave moves just as carefully and it almost hurts, how much he wants this. Not like my-boner-is-so-hard-it's-painful, though he's had _those_ before. It's internal; a sweet sort of sting. John's fingers pressing lightly along the indentations of skin between his ribs feels like he's sucking out a poison. Teeth gently closing on his lip ring and tugging: liquid burn. Erections grinding/pressing a bruise.

John brings him back to reality with a whisper: "Dave. Where'd you go?"

"What? Nowhere. I'm right here."

"Good." He nuzzles into Dave's neck, kisses his jaw, murmurs into his skin, "Stay with me."

John's hushed voice just makes the moment seem more fragile. Suddenly Dave feels kind of skeezy doing this on the couch. Carefully, slowly, he eases John up, pulls him by both hands toward the bedroom. He ends up walking backward and John smiles mischievously, grips Dave's hands and pushes close enough that Dave has to tilt his head up to meet John's open kiss. When his back hits the wall next to the doorway he's not surprised, just releases John's hands and lets himself be lifted up, wraps his legs around the other man's waist. His gasp steals John's exhale when he feels the unhurried arch of John's hips into his, the press and slide of their arousals through two layers of denim.

Which is way too many layers of denim. Reluctantly, Dave pulls away from the kiss to speak.

"We are not nearly naked enough," he says, rolling his hips once for emphasis.

John breathes a "yeah," licks his lips, clears his throat, says more clearly, "To the bed?"

Dave's response is to kiss him again, over and over, lips jaw neck ears temples, until John carries him, seemingly effortlessly, to the bed, and sets him down.

Dave watches John step out of his jeans and wants to be the single-file line of his vertebrae, the solid flex of his arms. He gets a little caught up in the way John's hair shifts as he stands to his full height, and almost doesn't notice their proximity until John is leaned over him, working his jeans off too. Once they're around his knees John tips him back onto the mattress with a light push to one shoulder, pulls the pants off him and tosses them away, starts to shimmy Dave's boxers off, though he's still wearing his own.

And then—oh god, there he goes. He's on his knees and between Dave's and there's no way he hasn't done this before....

Dave stops thinking coherently, devotes all his energy to staying propped up on his elbows so he can watch John's lips stretch over his cock, his tongue dart out to trace circles around the head when he pulls away, the way he kneads carefully, almost absently at Dave's thigh with the hand not wrapped around the base. Soon, though, he can't keep himself upright, and he collapses onto his back with a long moan, tugging uselessly at his own hair for lack of anything else to do with his hands. Without the visual he's left to focus solely on the sensation, and it burns in him like alcohol, warms him through, runs along his bloodstream and up and down his spine and collects in bright pools in all the places John's touching him.

Just before he comes, Dave has the realisation that they must be making love, and his orgasm washes over him in slow, gentle waves instead of crashing through him. When he comes down from the high he's relaxed, not worn out, and John has crawled up to lay beside him, licking his lips because he swallowed it oh god, he's definitely done this before. John's humming softly and stroking Dave's chest, not seeming to care that he hasn't been touched yet himself.

But Dave cares. He rolls on top of the bigger man, straddles his hips and attempts to convey how _good_ he feels through open, wet kisses. Tastes himself on John's tongue and that should be gross but it kind of isn't. Feels the hard swell of John's cock, which for some reason is still restricted by boxers, what is up with that. A little awkwardly, he reaches back to pull at the ends of John's shorts, and, a little awkwardly, John helps him get them partway down his thighs. Dave falls carefully sideways, leaves one leg slung over John's knee, and sucks deliberate hickeys into his neck as he tries to get the best grip he can on a dick that isn't between his own legs. His first-time uncertainty lasts the whole two seconds it takes for John to start moaning, the sound vibrating against his lips, and then it's easy to figure out what works best at drawing out more noise.

Dave leaves one final, soft kiss on John's shoulder and props himself up on one elbow to watch the kid's face, morphing from blissed out and open to lip-biting intensity, and the whole time he's making low little gasps and cries, his eyes fluttering open and closed, focused and unfocused on the ceiling, Dave's face, Dave's hands. One arm is still wrapped around Dave's waist, and Dave can feel his fingers scrabbling intermittently at the skin of his hip as he gets close.

Before his first given hand job ends in a totally unromantic hookers-don't-kiss kind of way, Dave leans in again to plant one on John's mouth, and is immediately held down with a strong hand to the back of the head, trapped in a desperate kiss that makes him regret ever not-kissing this man.

Then it's over, John's mouth going open and slack, hands clamping down just shy of painful on the bits of Dave he's got a hold of and then relaxing. Dave runs his clean hand through John's hair, half on top of him, feeling just as good about making someone else come as he usually does about completing a piece he's really proud of. Normally that achievement is more akin to tipping the waitress. Thanks for the service; here's a little something for you.

As soon as John's breathing has evened out he reaches for the back of Dave's neck again, pulls him into a slow kiss. "You're not opposed to cuddling, are you?" he asks, voice gentle and tired.

 _I'm not opposed to anything you do,_ he thinks. Out loud he says, "Nope. Cuddle away."

John breathes out half a laugh, reaches up to wedge a pillow under their heads, and cuddles away.

Dave stays tangled up in John's warm, heavy limbs for a good ten minutes before the silence and stillness starts to freak him out. He doesn't like being left inside his own head for too long and he doesn't know how to feel about all the attachment he's feeling. So he gets up and wets a washcloth to clean his sleeping... is John his boyfriend? Whatever. Covers him with a blanket from the living room because he's lying on top of the bedsheets. Grabs a canvas instead of his sketch pad, changes his mind and goes with the sketch pad, decides on a charcoal pencil, and practices drawing John's nose in the light from the hallway.

John turns over in his sleep a couple times, moving the blanket enough that Dave can attempt ankles. Toes are weird, like someone took a hand and rearranged it, squishing some parts and pulling others and heels are just hard. Fuck heels. He's contemplating whether he'd be enough of a creeper to sketch John's dick, if the blanket fell off that too, when John wakes up.

"Oh," he murmurs, propping his head up, "I see how it is. You let me take you out and bang you, but your real goal was to get me naked so you could get some more anatomy practice in."

Dave wonders if he's being creepy even without drawing anyone's dick. "Obviously," he says, quiet. "Do I get points for thinking of you more as an anatomy doll than a cheap lay?"

Even half-asleep, John has a killer smile. "As long as you're thinking of me."

It's cheesy and almost doesn't make sense and Dave loves it. As John turns over and curls up, deliberately kicking the blanket down to expose his back and ass, Dave finds himself smiling too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Finally._

Dave almost feels guilty that he hasn't taken better care of his photography equipment, leaving the enlarger and tanks and things to gather dust. He threw out the chemicals years ago so they wouldn't spoil like the forgotten half-gallon of milk in the back of the fridge. Every couple of years he snaps a few photos just to feel the camera in his hands, takes everything out of the closet to clean it and tinker with it, even if he hasn't set up a dark room in over a decade. He remembers how, though. He'd remember everything about it even if he didn't touch any of the tools for another couple decades. So he knows which chemicals to buy and how to screw a red bulb into a reading lamp and point it at the wall of the bathroom, not out into the space. He knows how to black out the small window and set his things all in a row on the rim of the tub and the sink, knows that he won't bump anything over in the dark even if he's never developed in this particular bathroom before.

The picture John asked for, the one of his smiling face on a concrete structure in the water of the Sound, is the only one he has any interest in printing. But he figures he might as well make negatives of the rolls he's got saved up, and he bought a new binder and album pages to store them all the way he's stored every photo negative he's ever developed. He even told John he'd be making a project out of it, and not to expect many texts from him for the next couple of hours.

Working in the dark is comforting. Working alone is not.

***

The photo of him comes out blurry. He tucks it into his newest photo binder to keep it flat until he can deliver it, and texts John about it just to tease him. John points out that he'd never used a big fancy camera like that before and he can't be expected to know how to focus it. Dave says he'd probably have a better time of it if he didn't photo-ambush people. John sends him a smiley face.

They've been texting almost constantly since John left the morning after their big adventure. Dave had tried to sext a little, jokingly, but John had cheerfully ignored his advances. After a while he admitted that long-distance flirting didn't do much for him, but he'd be happy to store up all his anticipation to unleash on Dave when they hung out again. Dave had stopped trying and started pouting to himself, horny and frustrated with John's class schedule. Who the hell even has class on weekends?

In an attempt to distract himself, Dave gets his nose out of his phone and does some painting. A few of his pieces are being displayed at a small gallery over the weekend, and while he's no Picasso, he always gets a handful of offers, so he figures he might as well have more stuff to show people when they come around with their lofty assessments and blank checks.

When he mentions the gallery to John, the younger man latches on to the subject.

**John Egbert  
hey, you should let me come and see your work!**

**youve seen it already**

**John Egbert  
yeah, but not on display and stuff, like professionally.**

**okay its a date  
id say ill pick you up but youre the one with the car**

**John Egbert  
great! i'm busy until tomorrow at seven though.**

**lame**

**John Egbert  
it's not that far away. i'll be there by seven fifteen, we can leave at eight.**

**you mean after all the crazy monkey sex**

**John Egbert  
exactly.**

Dave isn't sure if he wants to continue wooing John or just bone him until their bodies melt together in the bedroom heat. Probably both.

***

On Sunday John reminds Dave that fresh air and sunlight are totally on Maslow's hierarchy of needs, and he huffs and puffs but essentially offers little resistance. He takes a break from working and goes out to the waterfront, where there's grass and a view and tons of people to sketch. On a whim, he brings a box of pastels.

It's not terribly bright outside, but it's not raining, and the sky has some colour aside from gloom-grey. Dave makes colourful, imprecise scribble-shapes depicting as much of the scene as he can fit onto one page: people talking on benches, people laying in the grass, smoking or listening to music or sharing a phone between them to watch dumb videos online. People out with their kids. A couple dogs being walked. Fearless birds, keeping their glinty eyes peeled for scraps.

Then he flips to a new page and scratches out more focused lines, putting a shedding tree down on paper. Halfway through doodling a cat stuck in the tree, being dive-bombed by birds, a little girl shuffles up to him and looks over his shoulder. He finishes his little cartoon and flips the page over.

"Want me to draw you?" he asks, turning to her.

She takes a couple more steps toward him and sits down on the grass next to him, nods. Dave glances behind her and sees a couple watching the two of them like hawks from close by; probably the girl's parents. He shifts a little so he can get a good look at her and makes a point of moving a couple inches away. See, I'm not going to touch inside her no-no square or drag her back to my apartment to put her through a meat grinder.

As he sketches the lines of this strange child's face he decides to utilise his pastels again, uses them to shade and highlight and give colour to her hair and eyes, both brown. She sits very still, for a little kid, and even seems to be breathing shallowly, her expression a little stiff with the awareness of being watched. Even with slightly widened eyes and flared nostrils, she's cute, and he asks her name so he can write it in red across one pencil/pastel shoulder. When he shows her, she says. "Wow, you suck."

Dave laughs. "Yeah, I know. Want it anyway?"

She lights up, tries to hide her excitement, takes the torn-out page from his hands and runs back to the hawk-parents to show them.

Dave pretends he's not a little amused.

After a while he notices the sun starting to sink into the horizon, and he walks back home to prepare for his date. He throws his art supplies onto a less-cluttered area of his desk, strips down, takes a long hot shower, shaves carefully, and goes back to his room to get dressed. It's a gallery he's a part of, but it's nothing terribly fancy, so he can wear whatever he fucking wants. What he wants just happens to be the jeans that make his ass look fabulous and a rumpled black button-down shirt, the sleeves of which he rolls up to his elbows, exposing his skinny wrists but eliminating the way the cuffs fall too far down his hands. Stopping back in the bathroom to glance in the mirror and run a little mousse through his hair, he thinks he looks the right balance of put-together and don't-give-a-shit. He gives his reflection an approving nod and heads into the kitchen for a snack before John shows up.

He's halfway through sweeping toast crumbs off the counter when he hears the knock, and he affects a deliberate calm as he brushes the crumbs off his hands into the sink, walks to the door, and opens it.

John's not dressed up, but he's carrying a duffel bag, which probably contains a change of clothes. Dave curses his lack of foresight when he remembers all the crazy monkey sex they're supposed to have before the gallery, then decides he's fine as long as he doesn't fuck his hair up. It's not like his clothes will look any different after spending some more time on the floor.

The look on John's face tells him that he wasn't kidding about saving up all his sexual energy for tonight. The taller man barely gets through the doorway before he's carelessly tossing his bag off to one side and pulling Dave into his arms, kissing him soundly. Dave, still holding the door, weakly pushes it closed. It may or may not latch. He doesn't care, not when John's tongue is in his mouth and his hands are sliding under his shirt, up his sides, gripping his ribcage and lifting him. Dave's legs go around John's hips for the short journey to the bedroom and he almost doesn't want to unwind them once he's on his back on the bed but then he remembers how good his hair looks and he pushes John off him, steadies himself on John's shoulders in order to get his knees under him, licks his lips and does his best smoulder as he slowly undoes his jeans. John's unbuttoning his shirt for him even as he unconsciously licks his own lips in imitation, and when he runs out of buttons he yanks his own shirt off over his head like it's burning him. Dave quickly does the awkward pants-removal squirmy dance while John's sight is compromised, and then they're kissing again, John's hands on Dave's ass, pulling their hips together firmly and rocking them together gently.

Dave can't stand it. This guy is too much, too excellent, too hot not to be fucking but too sweet to rush, he's caught between getting off as quickly and as many times as he can or savouring every second he can spend in his lover's company.

Lover is such a strange word.

Abruptly, Dave cuts off the make-out session. Starts in on John's pants, then shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off when John takes over. Still in his underwear, he doesn't wait till John's ready, and he isn't exactly ready either, but he's decided he's going to give his first blow job. Falling to his knees and diving right in seems to be a-okay with John, judging by the little gasp/moan combo Dave draws out of him with the first contact of lips on dick. He learns he can't get it all in his mouth at once without a hell of a lot of saliva, and once he gets in as much as he can he decides he's grateful John doesn't have a monster dong. It's a little uncomfortable to keep his mouth open so wide for so long, but John's making some very encouraging sounds. Encouraging to his ego and his crotch both.

Before his jaw can get too stiff, John gently guides him back, then offers a hand to pull him to his feet. John helps him remove the last article of clothing between them and lets Dave lead them onto the bed, pushing his back against the wall and straddling his lap, kissing like mad. John squeezes Dave's thighs, slides his hands around to palm at his ass again. Dave shifts to bite at John's neck, his hips pushing forward almost of their own accord. John's hands smooth up his back and Dave moves with them, sucking in a long breath, spine straightening out, then exhaling as John pushes his fingers into the skin and drags them slowly back down. He watches John's face through half-lidded eyes as those big hands come to rest on the angle between thigh and hip and _grip._

"You're so fucking attractive," John mutters, and Dave is startled into laughter.

"So're you, hon," he purrs, playing up his accent and punctuating with a roll of his hips. He's hardly even thinking about how to handle John's male body, now. Mostly he's just admiring it. Licking his lips as he moves again, he can see the little reactions on John's face, feel them against his body. John leans up to kiss him again, and Dave rocks back against him, pins him to the wall with his body, reaches between them to hold them both in his hand. John's little gasp into his mouth is _so_ satisfying, the helpless little noises he's making are going straight to Dave's head and he's doing a pretty fucking good job with his hands if he does say so himself. John's hips are twitching up under him, but he's not getting very far, and his eyebrows slowly pull together until he opens his eyes and Dave's teeth catch on his piercing when he bites his own lip at the intensity in them.

Suddenly John rocks them again, this time tipping Dave over onto his back and following him down, looming over him, leaning down to suck the lip ring into his own mouth. Dave can feel John's tongue tracing the metal as he braces himself over the blonde on one elbow, his other hand replacing Dave's between them, taking over where Dave left off. John's mouth falls open, and he rests his forehead on Dave's shoulder, his breath creating moisture on Dave's skin. Dave shivers at the heat of his breath and the coolness of his inhalations, arching up into him. Head pressed back into the bed, body pulsing with heat, he comes with an unrestrained cry of John's name, fingers curled tight in John's hair, holding his head to his chest, knees coming up to press into John's sides, not _close enough to him..._

When he's done, he pants breath back into his lungs, and John lets go of him to focus on himself, biting at his clavicle, sucking a path up his neck, kissing him open and sloppy and distracted until he comes with a whine. Dave tries not to imagine what his name would sound like on John's lips in that tone, just kisses him through his orgasm. John collapses on top of him and Dave runs his hands over John's back and shoulders, kisses his hair. He whispers, "Holy hell, kid," and John breathes out a laugh.

"Was it good for you?" John asks once he's caught his breath, smirking into the skin of Dave's neck. Dave snorts and pushes him off, tries to roll off the bed, but John grabs his arm and pulls him in for a soft, slow kiss that briefly makes him forget how gross his stomach is.

Then he remembers the mess, and he shoves John again, this time making it off the bed without interference. In the bathroom, he catches sight of his hair in the mirror. Despite his efforts, it's messy as hell. He can't quite bring himself to care as John comes in behind him, resting his hands on Dave's hips and kissing the back of his neck.

"Yes, it was good for me," he murmurs. John makes eye contact through the mirror, and for a moment Dave's whole world is blue eyes and body heat, until John props his chin on top of Dave's head, grinning maliciously.

Dave swats wildly at him and calls him an oaf.

John just traps Dave's hands in his own, kissing his wrists.

They end up being late to the gallery.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for not posting this back when I finished it. I thought that it was going to be longer, but then I realised it ends nicely as it is and the next bit belongs to the next chapter anyway. The good news is: the next chapter is almost done and you'll probably see it within twenty-four hours.
> 
> Thank you so so so so so so much for bearing with me, good grief. I appreciate all of you. <3

The only things Dave cares to remember about the gallery, by the time it's over, are that three people offered to purchase his work, and John made scathing comments on all the art under his breath. Including Dave's.

"What is this, a dirty sock? You painted a dirty sock. Haha, oh man, you are so classy."

"I wanted something to practice realism with, and that was the closest thing."

"Sooooo classy. Hey, wait, this leafy one was at your place before, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, I brought it here to try to get rid of it. And those aren't leaves, they're—"

"Don't care. They look like leaves."

"Jesus, way to disrespect my artistic interpretation."

"You get no respect from me, only great lays."

"Oh, good to know that's where we stand."

"Stand, sit, kneel... I'm up for whatever."

"Not _here._ "

"Why not?"

Okay, so he also remembers the quick blow job he got in the bathroom pretty well.

John agreed to stay the night, but he'll be getting up and going to school soon. Dave had gotten a little sleep, but every time he woke up to turn over he ended up staying awake to cuddle John, staring at his face in the dark and wondering what he was dreaming of. Now he's counting the minutes until John leaves again, and asking himself when he became so stupidly into this guy. When he became so weak to his charms. With fingertips tracing across John's skin, shoulder bicep inner elbow upper arm wrist fingers holding his hand, Dave hates himself a little bit. Then John sighs and starts to move a little bit, and he releases the hand he's holding a little guiltily. The alarm on John's phone hasn't gone off yet, so he must be one of _those people,_ the weird ones who follow schedules and wake up on time in the mornings without throwing things across the room or being awake already anyway because sleep never came.

"Mmm. Hey there." His dumb sleepy face is so adorable and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

"Hey." Where did that smile come from?

John presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, throws his his arms out in a stretch, flops over half on top of Dave and returns his grin. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," Dave lies. "You?"

"Fucking great. I almost don't want to get up."

"So don't."

John laughs. "I have responsibilities, man. I'm paying for these classes. It would be kind of dumb to skip them, even if it would kind of totally be worth it to spend more time with you." His body is so close and he's so warm and solid and Dave groans, rolling over to face him, throwing a leg over his thigh.

"So _don't._ "

"Ugh." John kisses him with morning breath and Dave gives zero fucks. Negative fucks. Okay maybe the morning breath is pretty gross and he should wait till John brushes his teeth to make out with him. "How about," John kisses Dave's nose, "I come back," his cheek, "during my lunch," beside his eye, "and fuck you again?" One last kiss on his mouth, and forget the morning breath, Dave has morning wood despite not having just woken up, and John has it because he really did just wake up, and Dave doesn't want to wait until John's lunch, he wants him again right now, but John's phone chooses this moment to start playing an MP3. It's obnoxious as hell. It has a _[laugh track.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHfmi-aIWpI)_ Dave bashes his head against John's shoulder, and John laughs at him as he reaches over to turn the alarm off.

"I really have to get up now," he says, with big apologetic eyes.

Dave is weak.

Dave hates himself.

"Yeah, okay, whatever."

John kisses his nose again before rolling off the bed and rooting around in his bag for more clothes. Dave gets up and shuffles around in the kitchen, making coffee. Might as well stay up, if John is gonna come back later.

Before he leaves, John pulls Dave in for a gentle goodbye kiss, one hand on his elbow.

"Don't do too much nothing while I'm gone," he teases.

Dave snorts and holds the door open for him. "Enjoy your higher education, Mr. Egbert!" he yells down the hallway at John's back.

***

On Tuesday John agrees to stay the night again since he doesn't have a morning class. "So we can have morning sex. I mean morning snuggles," he'd said with a wink, like the enormous kid he is.

Dave lets John into his apartment again and this time it's kind of scary because it's so natural. John's a little sweaty, presumably from a run, and Dave can smell musk under the hyper-clean scent of his deodorant. John eyes the paint on Dave's hands as he toes his shoes off and dumps his stuff on the couch.

"Working on a piece?"

Dave nearly runs a hand through his hair before catching himself. He turns the awkward half-motion into a slightly less awkward shrug. "Not really. Just kind of dicking around."

"Oh yeah?" John chuckles and takes a step toward him, eyebrows waggling. "We should dick around together."

That's so fucking ridiculous, but Dave doesn't get a chance to laugh before John closes the distance between them and kisses him playfully. Dave's arms hover out to his sides to he doesn't get paint all over them both, but he soon forgets to be careful, and John ends up with a streak of blue-green on his cheek.

"Ugh, that shit's cold. Gimme that." John snatches the paintbrush out of Dave's other hand and swipes it across Dave's nose. It doesn't take long for the paint to get on their clothes, which of course means they have to start taking those clothes off, smearing paint on each other's skin and tasting it in their kisses. They make it halfway to the bedroom before John trips Dave and sends them down hard. Lying on the floor, tangled together and messy, John calms his laughter enough to say, "Dave, oh my god, we're so gross."

"We? I get paint on myself all the time; you're the one with paint all mixed into your sweat and shit."

"Oh, hush." John snuggles into him, propping his chin on Dave's chest. "This isn't going to wash off easy, is it?"

"I'll scrub you down very thoroughly."

John giggles a little and pushes himself up for another kiss. "You better."

Soon their kisses turn deep and slow, and John settles himself over Dave, caging him in, making him feel simultaneously trapped and safe. Dave's hands start doing their own thing, wandering aimlessly while his mind is focused on John's mouth on his own, and then suddenly they're very deliberately sliding under John's shorts and squeezing a double handful of his ass. John breaks the kiss to stare down at him, his eyes smile-narrowed and lust-dark and Dave wonders how much ultramarine/slate grey/true blue it would take to get their shade just right. Then John is grinding their dicks together and looking at him like he's dinner and there's no more room in Dave's head for colour, only _John_ and _clothes; off_ and _ffffuck yes._

Later, in the shower, Dave does indeed scrub John down, making the taller man laugh when he insists on cleaning his junk extra carefully despite the total lack of paint anywhere below the belt on him. He also turns what he thinks is probably a pretty bright shade of red when John whispers in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the whirr of the fan and the hiss of the showerhead, that he brought lube and condoms tonight, just in case those are things that Dave wants to try using.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.

Dawn touches the city like a Dementor, except instead of CG and literal soul-sucking it's that scraggly grey hopelessness that comes with waterlogged clouds too thin to drop any rain. The light seeps through the gaps in the curtains over the east-facing window and brings Dave out of his doze. John's warmth at his back is simultaneously comforting and exciting, dredging up the memory of arousal from last night. He recalls it in pleasant flashes: John's legs over his shoulders, John's fingers gripping his thighs, lips wide open and cherry red and saliva-glossy, how he arches when he comes. And Dave wants to paint it, scribble it in charcoal, take photos of it, wants to get a hold on it and pin it in place, wants to capture it from as many angles as possible and keep it forever.

John is still out cold. Dave decides to get up and make breakfast.

There's a box of instant pancake mix in the back of one cupboard with instructions on the back that he more or less follows. By the time he's done he's only spilled a little bit of batter on the stovetop, and nothing is terribly burnt, so he counts it as a success. John woke up somewhere around the third pancake, and Dave can hear him rummaging around in the bedroom, probably looking for the clothes that got thrown all over the place last night. He finishes up and turns the stove off, arranges everything on plates on the table, smothers it in syrup, and goes into the bedroom, a cheesy announcement on the tip of his tongue.

Instead he sees John crouched next to the bed, holding his underwear in one hand and a framed photo in the other, and feels sick. John looks up at Dave, who's gripping the door frame now, gaze locked on the photo, and laughs.

"Look what I found! Is this you in high school? I am so glad you cut your hair, you looked like such a tool—"

"Shut up," Dave snaps, reflexive. As soon as it's out of his mouth he clamps down on his emotions, closes his eyes and takes a breath, tries to keep his voice level. "Just put that down."

He can't see John, but he hears him give an uncertain little laugh and say, "Sorry, man, didn't mean to be a dick."

Dave says, "I think you need to go home."

Whatever John's reaction to that is, it isn't verbal. Dave's jaw clenches as he feels the displaced air of the bigger man walking past him. Carefully, he releases his hold on the doorframe, but doesn't move while he can still hear John putting his clothes on and packing his things.

At the sound of the front door closing, he allows himself to look again. The photo is on the bed where John left it. It takes a second for Dave to will his body to move across the room and pick it up. It's absolutely caked in dust after all this time. John had wiped the glass in a jagged streak from top to bottom, revealing blonde hair, bright eyes, a brighter smile. Once he notices the tears on his face they come stronger, and he stands there with his hands in tight fists and his face twisted up in anger, too proud to sob and too overwhelmed to make it stop, too small to contain it all so that when it gets to be too much he roars wordlessly, hurls the photo at the nearest wall. He doesn't hear the sound it makes on impact, but when the haze clears from his vision he can see the scattered shards of glass radiating from the dent in the drywall, the splintered pieces of the frame, the photo scraped and bent. Breathing hard, he sinks into a crouch and holds his head in his hands, just for a minute, just to get his shit together.

Booze. He needs booze.

He doesn't have any liquor, but once he's got a bottle of beer in him he feels a little less like he's going to vibrate out of his skin. As he stumbles back into his room with a second bottle in hand, he steps on the broken glass, and his yell of pain turns into another furious scream. Cursing, he limps to the bathroom to find the first aid kit to disinfect and patch it up. He cleans up the blood and glass on the bedroom floor, avoids looking too closely at the photo as he gingerly smooths it out and presses it into the pocket of his film binder where the pressure of the sleeves will flatten out the wrinkles. Since he's cleaning, he figures he might as well throw away the pancakes and rinse the dishes.

Then he paints. He stress paints formless swathes of colour, then paints over them before they have a chance to dry. He gets restless and paints on the walls, something he hasn't done since he was a teenager. He paints until the sun goes down, and then he drinks some more, and then he paints drunk until he can feel the tiredness settling in his knees and his hips and drying his mouth and eyes.

He passes out, and wakes up what feels like five minutes later with a headache that feels like gravel in his skull. He has no idea how long he's actually been out, but a glance at his too-bright phone tells him that it's been a day and a half since John left.

Oh fuck, John.

Sleep has rid him of his anger, and now he feels the full weight of the guilt for acting the way he did. He almost wants to—no, that's bullshit, he _does_ want to see John, but he won't. Not after that. John isn't... John won't just pretend nothing happened, won't come around later with a smile and a peace-offering.

If he wants to keep John, he has to be the one to make the offering for once.

John will get out of his afternoon class soon. Dave groans, heaves himself up, and trudges toward the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there's a happy ending.


	11. Chapter 11

The University of Washington is fucking huge. If not for an offhanded comment from John about his living situation and the help of an internet search, Dave would have no clue where he was or where he was going. As it is, he's wandering around in the rain with his photo binder tucked inside his hoodie, glancing down at his phone to check the map and glancing up at the medieval-looking buildings, and generally feeling like a moron. He's out of place, his foot stings, he feels like garbage physically and worse mentally. The whole situation is bullshit.

When he finds the right building, he reaches the end of his plan. Who knows when John will come back, or if there's a different entrance he uses, or if he's even coming back here after class. Dave is kind of done with life at the moment, so he decides to just... sit on the stoop.

Yeah, great plan. Sitting outside in the rain with a hangover. At least if he's sitting there's no pressure on the cuts on his foot, and the wound can throb in peace inside his soggy shoe.

After maybe twenty minutes of ignoring passers-by, he sees a pair of feet stop in front of him. From under his hood, he glances up to see John looking puzzled.

"Uh, hi, Dave."

"I came to explain," he blurts. And since his phone is in plain sight, a half-played game of Bejeweled on the screen, he adds, "Didn't want to do it over the phone."

"Okay. Do you, like, want to come in?"

God, he's trying, a fake smile on his face, but Dave can see the way it doesn't reach his eyes and hear the hesitation in his voice and feels lower than dirt for letting his own bullshit affect this perfect fucking kid.

"Yeah, thanks," he mumbles.

John extends a hand to help him off the ground and Dave almost waves it off for the sake of pride, but it's too good to pass up. He clambers up a little awkwardly with his free arm over the binder. The contact doesn't break right away, and John's got a little uncertain smile on his face. Dave doesn't know how to interpret that. Are they even still together? Were they ever "together"? He doesn't understand relationships and he doesn't want to think about labels and social nuances, he just wants to get this over with so he can have that easy companionship back.

John lets go and turns to open the door, and Dave trails after him as he leads the way. Once in his apartment, John dumps his stuff on a table, and then they're just standing there facing each other, silent and awkward and damp. Not knowing what else to do, Dave opens the binder and pulls out the print of the photo John took.

"You forgot this. So here."

Another little half-smile from John, though it quickly grows into something more unguarded when he takes the photo.

"Hey, it turned out pretty decent. I mean, I don't know much about photography, but..." He looks back up. "Thanks."

He sets it carefully on a clear spot on the table. Dave is still holding the binder open, looking at the other print in the pocket. Before he can second-guess himself, he pulls it out and hands it to John as well. The look on John's face tells Dave that he recognises it, but he says nothing, so Dave takes a hurried breath and says, "That's my brother."

John blinks, and then opens his mouth, but Dave presses on because this time he's going to be the one to fix things.

"I buried my past a long time ago, and I know you didn't do it on purpose but it's like you dug up the grave and desecrated the corpse so I kind of lost it. Of course I had to go and act out the 'brooding artist hides dark past' cliche. But you didn't deserve the way I treated you, and I am so fucking sorry for the way I lashed out."

"Me and my big mouth."

Dave's eyebrows scrunch up. "What?"

John is smiling, which is weird considering the circumstances. "It's okay that you freaked out. Whatever you were trying to forget, I'm sorry for prodding the wound, you know?"

"No, god, why are _you_ apologising—"

"Because I fucked up too, okay? Just because I had no idea I was doing it doesn't mean I didn't hurt you."

Dave feels strangely empty. He has no idea how to handle this. He's still holding the fucking binder. John glances at the way he's white-knuckling it and holds out a tentative hand to take it. His movements are slow and deliberate, the way you're supposed to move around skittish animals, and Dave thrusts it at him so that he can set it on the table. When John gestures to the bed, he sits on it, and John settles about a foot and a half away. A mile away.

"Have you talked to anyone about it?"

"Fuck no," Dave spits, looking away so that John doesn't see the way regret immediately appears on his face. "It's no-one's business but mine."

"I get that. But it's not healthy for you to bottle all that emotion up..."

"I'm not bottling anything. Like you said, I forgot about it."

"It's okay to remember it, Dave. It's okay to be sad or angry or whatever it is you're feeling—"

"Obviously it isn't okay, because I'm—fuck." He stops himself, makes himself take a shallow breath. "Because I'm taking it out on you, now. This is the furthest thing from okay. You're the last person I want to hurt. I..."

He turns to look directly at John, and doesn't know what to do with the other man's expression. John is just looking back at him, totally neutral, waiting for him to continue.

"This is probably wildly inappropriate, considering the circumstances and the fact that we've known each other for, what, two weeks? But I think I'm falling for you."

John laughs at that, and Dave has officially lost all grasp on the situation.

"No, oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you. I just thought you knew that already."

After a moment of total inability to make his brain produce language, all Dave manages to say is, "Do what now?"

"It's kind of obvious, Dave. But it's okay. I feel the same way."

"Oh." John's smiling softly. Dave is just kind of staring at the floor. "This is not the way I expected this conversation to go."

John laughs again, just a breathy chuckle through his nose. Dave doesn't see the kiss coming until it's being pressed to his cheek. "Is that a complaint?"

"Um."

They don't kiss again after that. They don't take their clothes off. They end up lying together on the bed, talking in murmurs despite their solitude and the dull light outside, and it would feel like high school if he had ever done this in high school. It feels like the most intimate Dave has ever been with another person.

As the light coming through the window fades to nothing and then flares up again in the form of electricity, he starts talking about his brother. Curled around John, their foreheads together, he closes his eyes and talks about how they used to have movie night every Friday, how his brother would buy him Sour Patch Kids and a ticket to any shitty film he asked to see. How his teenage older sib never complained about spending a day at Baskin Robbins with a middle schooler, never wrote off his art even in the crayon drawing stage, never sugar-coated anything the way adults did. How instead of going off to college he worked two jobs for months in order to buy Dave his own camera when he could have just asked their filthy rich absentee parents for the money. How Dave had picked a petty fight with him just before the crash that killed him. How Dave had crashed the funeral, raised hell in his town, and then packed up and left at seventeen without even thinking of looking back.

"Have you ever visited the grave?" John asks softly.

Dave feels his face pull tight into anger again. "Have you ever had a root canal?"

John doesn't flinch away from the sarcasm dripping off his tone; he nods like gets it and pulls Dave closer to his body.

"Maybe some day."

"Why would I?"

"I'll go with you." And he sounds so serious, jesus. Like it's a matter of when, not if. "We can slay that particular dragon together."

Dave opens his eyes to look up at John's face in the half-dark and says nothing. He thinks he's all out of words. John has class in a few hours, but he's lying awake listening to his boyfriend talk about his past for the first time in his life. Dave can't believe this kid is dumb enough to think he's worth it. Eventually he says so aloud, though muffled in the fabric of John's shirt, and John just giggles and kisses his hair.

So, maybe. Maybe he can do the catharsis thing. Maybe some day he can go back to Texas with John. Maybe this beautiful, goofy kid who turned his life upside down in no time flat is worth it.

Dave thinks he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it is done. Hope I didn't botch the ending.
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you who have stuck with me through all this. It took way longer than it should have and it ended up way angstier than I had intended. Drama sort of runs away with me.
> 
> For those who are interested, I have an active but not overwhelming [tumblr](http://unrealityfreak.tumblr.com/) on which I sometimes post drabbles that don't make it to the archive.
> 
> <3


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